


Close to You

by TheFogisLifted



Category: Merlin (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Discrimination, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Multi, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFogisLifted/pseuds/TheFogisLifted
Summary: In which Dean Winchester and Castiel Milton learn how to free themselves and be who they truly are. Based on Heart in a Headlock by SweetAndSharp.





	Close to You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Heart in a Headlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/987049) by [SweetAndSharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetAndSharp/pseuds/SweetAndSharp). 
  * Inspired by [Appendix to Heart in a Headlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/987046) by [SweetAndSharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetAndSharp/pseuds/SweetAndSharp). 



> IMPORTANT: This fic is inspired by Heart in a Headlock by SweetAndSharp and, thus, follows the rules of that universe. I would really recommend going and skimming her appendix so the terminology doesn't confuse you. Or just go read the story, because while it may be unfinished it's excellent. 
> 
> I began writing this fic after I realized that Heart in a Headlock may never be finished. That's the authors choice and I have to be okay with it. People have lives and stuff happens. But I've also realized that many people loved that story and are very saddened by the idea that it will never be finished.
> 
> I'm not half the writer that SweetAndSharp is, but I thought I would give it a shot and write a fic within the same universe in the hopes of stemming the sadness. 
> 
> I also realized that the way I've written Dean may bring up some concerns for transgender readers. I recognize these concerns, but I want you all to know that I've written him this particular way to be faithful to his character within the biological parameters of the universe. He is not written this way as a fetish, but because in my imagination and opinion as the author these are the struggles he would have within the context of this universe. I do everything with a purpose my loves. Except for Castiel's age, which is like 80% fetish and 20% plot. But other than that, everything is for the sake of the plot and my love for these characters.

Dean.

A Friday night was the perfect time to get out and unwind after a long week of taxing work. It wasn’t that Dean didn’t enjoy his job, he loved working on cars and Bobby was just about the best employer he could have asked for. There was something so deeply fulfilling for him about being a mechanic, even if certain other people didn’t find it dignified or appropriate. Sometimes the customer service aspect of it could be trying, especially when people felt it was their right to dig for his sexugender when they couldn’t obtain an answer from his scent.

But Dean was used to other people making his life difficult, so he dealt with it the same way he always did; going down to the local dive bar to get a drink and maybe a little somethin’ extra. Despite his childhood, the things he’d had to do to keep Sammy clothed and fed hadn’t turned him off from sexual exploits. And if the deep, dark truth was something he smothered with too much booze and indiscriminate sex, it wasn’t anyone's business but his.

Which brings us back to the bar, Harvelle’s Roadhouse, about a half hour outside of Lebanon. From the outside it seems rather dilapidated, while the the inside reveals the place to be clean and well-kept, if a little out of date. The smell of sweat and beer hung like a thick fog in the air, but it didn’t seem to stop any of the patrons from having a good time. Ninety percent of the Roadhouse’s clientele were hunters, farmers, law enforcement, etc. In other words, traditional alpha professions. The only omegas that came through here usually had some questionable morals or motives.

Like the young lady who had taken a seat next to Dean, for instance. He had been sitting at the bar knocking back his second whiskey when she sat down on the stool next to him and ordered a beer. Dean took a look at her in his peripheral vision and was about to make the first move when she beat him to it.

“The last man that I saw shootin’ whiskey like that turned out to have one hell of a talented mouth on him.” Dean gave a small laugh and a wolfish grin to the blonde sitting next to him before responding in kind.

“Maybe later you’ll get to find out exactly how talented I can be.” In between flirting they quickly introduced themselves and shared all the necessary details so they could get back to the important stuff. While they were talking, he questioned if she was really what he needed tonight. Physically, she was actually very attractive. She was short with smaller breasts with wide hips. Kristin (...is that her name? He couldn’t quite remember.) had a genuine, if slightly wheezy, laugh and a set of bright, molten amber eyes that seemed to glow in the dim bar lighting. But more importantly, she didn’t seem concerned with getting to know him beyond his agreement to be a warm body for the night. An attractive femega who didn’t ask too many serious questions was exactly what he needed tonight.

It had been four years since Dean had had a sexual encounter with an alpha. In the past, he’d needed to turn tricks occasionally to keep he and Sam taken care of, and then later to make sure Sam had enough money to pay for the things his scholarship to Stanford wouldn’t cover. With all these expenses and such inconsistent cash flow, it wasn’t as if he’d been able to afford suppressants, so his teenage self had figured he might as well sell his heats to keep them more financially comfortable. But once Sam had graduated, he obtained a fellowship that would pay for law school, and Dean suddenly found himself with more extra cash than he’d had in his entire life. Keep in mind it wasn’t really that much money, but enough to buy some halfway decent suppressants and still keep a roof over his head. And if his family had a problem with what he had done in the past, they never said anything, if they knew about it at all.

The cute femega’s hand drifted to his knee and squeezed, a flirtatious grin crawling across her face. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip before returning her grin with a waggle of his brows.

“You wanna get out of here?” The woman (Christie? Kirsty? Something along those lines.) leaned close to give him her answer.

“Hell. Yes.” She guided him into a deep, playful kiss while sliding a delicate hand up his flank towards his hip. They filled the air between the barstools for a few moments with wet, little smacks and the occasional hum. They separated slowly, the femega giving him a bright smile before grabbing his hand to lead him towards the door. Dean could feel a concerned gaze directed at his back as he left, probably Ellen or Jo. He didn’t want to look back and see their faces painted with something so close to pity. They knew the score, it wasn’t something to feel pity or sorrow for. That’s just the way he was.

* * *

 

They went back to her place. He preferred not bringing chicks home, it kept his flings that much more disconnected and he could simply remain that fantastic one night stand. Once they were inside her apartment, she backed him up against a wall while pressing him for more deep, fevered kisses. In the process of making their way from the foyer to the bedroom they knocked over one potted plant, two photographs, and one very unfortunate ceramic cherub. Christine didn’t seem very bothered by all the property destruction, though. When they finally finished forging their path of destruction to the boudoir, Dean picked up Kirsty (...Christie? Who really knows.) and tossed her on the bed; she bounced a little and made a high-pitched giggle that verged on hysterical. He dove in for another embrace when she pushed against his shoulders, forcing their mouths apart.

“Wait, need to get you out of those clothes first! C’mon baby, hurry up!” She whipped her blouse right over her head before she began working her hands underneath his t-shirt.

“Woah, hey! Don’t worry about me, I’ll get there.” He gently grasped her wrists and peeled them from his belly. Dean felt a little pinch of anxiety in his stomach. He needed to distract her and reassert control of this liaison. He quickly stripped off his t-shirt before kneeling between her legs. He dragged the jean skirt down her tan legs, tossing it in some corner of the room.

Kirsten’s (...maybe? Not really important right now, though.) panties were a lacy, white bikini cut. He could see the outline of her lips through her underwear where a wet spot was barely starting to form. Dean palmed her knees gently, spreading her legs apart before leaning in to get a quick taste of the wet spot. Pulling back, he rubbed her pussy through her panties before peeling them down her legs.

Once the panties were gotten rid of, Dean dove back in; teasing her clit with his mouth while the finger of one hand teased at her entrance. One of her legs was slung over his shoulder, while her hands had migrated to tug forcefully at his hair. Christina (...?) seemed determined to keep his mouth on her vagina. His mouth moved lower, his tongue penetrating her hole to try and lap up as much of her slick as possible.

Dean allowed himself to get lost in the task at hand. He found himself high on the pheromones saturating the air like so much humidity. The hands in his hair, the slick in his mouth, her scent in his nose, and his own arousal kept him firmly entranced. He moved to thumb gently at her clit which elicited a moan. He felt her fingers tighten in his hair and his own arousal rising higher until he couldn’t resist taking advantage of his free hand. His hand slithered down his belly to his fly. With two quick motions the button was undone and the zipper was down.

Normally, Dean never would have done it like this; exposing himself this way. But in this moment where he was down on his knees, face deep in slick, pink wonder with a beautiful woman moving his head as she pleased; he allowed a little bit of his true sexual desires to come out. His allowed his hand down the front of his underwear where he bypassed his clit and went straight for his wet hole. He was far past teasing himself considering how damp and muggy the inside of his underwear felt. Dean wriggled his middle finger into his slick passage as quickly as he could while pressing more firmly on the blonde’s clit and flickering his tongue in a way she seemed to like.

Dean added another finger into his own vagina, pistoning them vigorously, already desperate to reach his climax. He felt the body above him tense, as if being pulled taut, and felt her shudder as her orgasm stampeded through her. A small flood of her juices hit his tongue as he slowly eased up on her clit, wanting to take his partner through her orgasm without making the nub feel over-sensitized.

A few rather savage thrusts into his own hole brought Dean to an intense climax. Light-headed pleasure trickled through his body, forcing a brief gasp from his lips as he felt his muscles contract around his own fingers. As Dean slowly pulled his fingers from his cunt, he felt a heavy dribble of slick and cum run over his fingers.

Dean sat back on his bottom to try and catch his breath. Dean raised his arm as vivid green eyes tracked a drop of his own slick running down a work-worn palm before curling around a muscular forearm. He sat for another moment longer with the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears before he began to move again. 

* * *

 

After making his excuses to his confused bed partner, Dean hurriedly dressed and quickly made his way back home. Home for Dean was a tiny craftsman cottage on the north side of town; from the outside it was plain, nothing special. The inside, however, had the mark of its owner all over. There were the things you would expect to find in a home owned by Dean Winchester; a fridge full of beer, the plain army-green duvet, and the dvd boxset of the original Star Wars trilogy. But then there were things you’d never predict him owning in a thousand years; orchids growing in the window, a well-loved notebook full of handwritten recipes, and a shoebox containing every award Sam had ever won.

  
Dean Winchester was the very definition of the word dichotomy. His most basic nature and the person he was raised to be were constantly in conflict. His father, John Winchester, hadn’t been the most open-minded in regards to his oldest child; he knew how he wanted Dean to be and wouldn’t hear anything to the contrary. Dean wanted to work on cars just as much as he wanted to bake apple pie.

John Winchester had spent his son’s entire life ignoring the parts of his son he found unsuitable, and as a result Dean found himself vacillating between denial and profound shame.

Standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror, Dean found himself suffocating on that shame yet again.

He turned his gaze sharply away from the mirror, marching to the shower stall to turn on the water. Maybe the scalding water would be able to wash away these feelings.

 

Feelings of want. Wanting pleasure, love, to be his truest self, and…

 

This final half-formed desire had Dean gritting his teeth and choking down a hard lump of sorrow. There was no point thinking these thoughts or feeling these desires. To pursue them would be selfish. He wasn’t allowed to want these things, it wasn’t who he was supposed to be. He just wasn’t allowed.

* * *

 

Castiel.

Castiel Milton did the same thing every goddamn day. Wake up every day at 6:30AM on the dot. Get ready for work, eat a breakfast of plain toast and orange juice, and leave at precisely 7:30AM. Arrive at the office at 7:55AM with just enough time to wait for the abominably slow elevator to collect and carry him to the tenth floor. From there he would spend the next four hours staring at numbers and dollar signs until his one hour lunch break. During said lunch break, he would walk across the street to the park and eat his lunch on a bench because he didn’t know anyone in his office beyond a professional capacity.  

 

After lunch Castiel would return to his office and go back to staring at more numbers and dollar signs until 5:00PM. At this point, Castiel would collect his things and return home to waste time until the cycle began again.

 

It was on another long Tuesday after 5:00PM that Castiel found himself sitting on his sofa, staring at the pages of the novel he was reading. He hadn’t read a single line in the last ten minutes; he had simply sat there staring at the pages blankly as feelings of frustration and helplessness bubbled in his gut.  

Everyday he woke up and did the same exact thing, then went home and did more of the same. What was the point of it all? None of it made him feel happy, or even content. Sitting there on that couch, Castiel Milton realized he didn’t feel anything. As a young man, he’d been enthusiastic for the endless possibilities that lay in front of him. Now at forty, Castiel felt that he was at a dead end. He’d spent the last seventeen years working at the same job, living in the same place, with no one to share any of it with.

Castiel had always known that his behavior could make others...uncomfortable. He had tried all his life to squash the small spark of hope that one day he might find someone who could make all of this worth it.

 

But now that hope was killing him. He just wanted to accept that this was his life, unsatisfying as it was, and be content with that. He needed to accept it because this is how his life was going to be. Nothing was going to change.

 

Castiel calmly closed his book and stood from the couch. He held the book in his hands and took a moment to look down at the cover, not even reading the words of the title. Then he looked up and chucked the book straight at the television screen with as much force as he could muster. The screen shattered, glass falling to the ground. Castiel never even noticed, he had already moved on to upending the coffee table and throwing the lamp across the room where is smashed into pieces against the wall.

It only took Castiel seven minutes to completely destroy his living room, but it felt as if it had taken years. Each movement had his gut clenching, his muscles tensed, every single part of him begging him to stop. But the angry swarm of bees buzzing incessantly in his head made it impossible to think beyond his anger and hopelessness. He could feel the heat on the back of his neck and his molars grinding against each other as he gritted his teeth.

 

By the time he was done, Castiel was barely standing. He stood hunched over, breathing deeply through his nose, his nostrils flaring with every breath. As he came back down, he surveyed the room.

 

There were no tears, no guilt or embarrassment. Just numbness and an empty pit of nothing in his gut. Yes, things were best this way.

Castiel spent the rest of his night cleaning up his living room before going to bed. Tomorrow he would buy a new living room set and television, pretending this unfortunate outburst had never occurred. 

  


However, even the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. 

 


End file.
